


Doctor and the Genius

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1850s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Crossover, Gen, No Homophobia, Obsessive Jim, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial, Talking Inanimate Objects, Women are a bit more free than period-typical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Among mankind,’ says Beauty, ‘there are many that deserve that name more than you, and I prefer you, just as you are, to those, who, under a human form, hide a treacherous, corrupt, and ungrateful heart.’”</p><p>--Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont, <span class="u">Beauty and the Beast</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My crossover for the Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial Challenge.
> 
> This fic blends BBC Sherlock with both the 1991 Disney movie and the [original fairy tale](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/beauty.html). Since the fairy tale was written and set in the the 1700s and the movie made in the '90s, I decided to set this in the late 1850s and while I have endeavored to be accurate, I am not perfect. If there are any glaring errors, please let me know. Also, I have taken some artistic license with certain views of the time such as with homosexuality, what women did/were allowed to do, and that anyone could court another person regardless of gender.
> 
> I will be posting a new chapter each Sunday and will update tags and such as I go.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 15 Sept 15: Life has been a bit taxing lately so the posting schedule has been a bit off. Thanks to those who keep reading and your patience with my occasional lack of updates. Just know that I will finish this fic not matter how long it takes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 15 Sept 15: I've updated the chapters (1-5 at this point) to more or less final versions. Nothing major changed, just adjusted some of the wording and adding some additional minor details!

** Prologue **

_ Once upon a time, in the English countryside, there lived a gifted young lord in sprawling manor. Although he had all that his heart could desire, the lord was spoiled, selfish, and unkind. Then, one cold winter’s night, a homely old gentleman came to the mansion and offered to share his knowledge and books in return for shelter from the bitter cold. The lord sneared at the gentleman and dismissed him, refusing to believe that the visitor could know more than him, a genius. The gentleman warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for true wisdom is found within. When the lord dismissed him again, the homely gentleman’s visage melted away and he transformed into powerful sorcerer. The lord tried to apologise, but it was too late, for the sorcerer saw that there was no reason in his mind nor love in his heart. As a punishment, he transformed the lord into a monstrous beast and placed a powerful spell upon the manor and the few who still managed to live there. Feared for his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself in his manor, his experiments and inventions the only link to the outside world. The book the sorcerer had offered, was truly an enchanted book; it’s pages ready to be filled with the love and wisdom the young lord learned. As the time passed, the pages turned, never to the filled again. If he could learn to love and respect another before the last page turned, and earn their love and respect in return, then the spell would be broken. If not, then he would be forced to remain a beast forever. As the years went by, he fell further into his waspish ways and lost all hope. For who could ever love and tolerate a beast? _

——————-

** Chapter 1 **

John groaned as he sat up, bad shoulder grieving him more than normal. He brought his right hand up and massaged the tense muscles of his neck, before focusing on the tight tissue below the scar. It had never healed right, after he was shot in the War.  _ But then again, with the medical care I’d got in Crimea, I’m surprised I even survived! _ He’d unfortunately seen plenty of soldiers who weren't as lucky as him.  _ I should send Ms. Nightingale a letter,  _ he thought.  _ See how she is faring _ .

He threw aside his meager bedclothes and ignored the visible puffs of breath as he strode to the window. The sheen of ice clinging to the glass was enough to tell him of the weather outside, without having to look past it into the overgrown garden, and its affect on his mangled shoulder. He grabbed his housecoat and pulled it on before making his way down the stairs to the kitchen. He popped his head into Harry’s room near the top of the stairs, but it was empty and the bed still made.

“Harry?” he called, hoping his sister was home and awake for once. The answering silence was all he heard.

John hobbled over to the wood stove and added another piece of wood. He rubbed his hands together to fight off the morning chill as the log caught fire. Thankfully, the fire hadn’t gone out in the night. The house was cool enough without having to build a new one and waiting for it to warm the iron monstrosity before radiating the heat out to the room. He made a quick breakfast of last night’s leftover stew before clambering back to his room to dress for the day.

The wardrobe was sparse when John surveyed its contents. A few shirts, waistcoats, and trousers populated the small cabinet, along with his single frock coat. As he dressed, he was thankful that the attire for businessmen had remained fairly simple and conservative over the years.While he envied some of the bolder fashions of late, he hadn't had much extra pocket money for new clothes. Although, as he pulled on his coat he was forced to acknowledge that it was becoming threadbare and he would have to procure another before long. He glanced once more into the mirror, adjusted his cravat, and headed back downstairs.

John had a least one joy in his somewhat tedious life: the family horse. He left the house by the back entrance and strode across the small yard to the stables. He rubbed his hands together a few times to warm them as he approached the building, pausing only to push the door open.

“Morning, Philippe,” John said as he entered. The Belgian horse knickered a greeting back as John threw him some fresh hay and a few handfuls of grain.

“Don’t suppose you know where Harry is off to, do you?”

Philippe munched his grain, happy to ignore John’s query.

John huffed a laugh. “No, didn’t think so.”

He grabbed a hoof pick, brush, and curry comb, quickly settling into the preparatory routine so he could saddle Phillipe up for the ride into town. As he worked, John couldn’t help ruminating over the last several years. He knew it was ridiculous, talking to the horse, but he always felt after he did; it was someone to listen without the judgement when he felt no one else would.

“You remember Mum and Dad. Always helping them cart their new inventions around.” He laughed again. “Got to go to the Great Exhibition! Even I couldn’t make it to that. They took Harry though.” His voice trailed off as he walked over to get the saddle pad. Both him and Harry were raised with a love of science and with a certain disregard for societal rules in regards to women and their place. How excited she’d been to go and see all the exhibits there!

Philippe continued to munch away.

“She was never the same after their laboratory exploded,” John mumbled. He fiddled with the blanket some more before returning with the saddle.

“I’ve tried to do right by her, I really have. It’s just not been easy.” He was left to care for his slightly spoilt, and entirely too free, sister. It wouldn't have mattered much but for the sudden lack of income; her habits and social engagements were expensive. He was already a doctor by then, but returning invalidated only months before his parent’s tragic death had left him no opportunity to find work.

Philippe knocked over the empty bucket. John shook his head and smiled as he went to the water pump to fill it.

“I didn't want to leave London,” he continued, setting the full bucket down for the horse to drink. “As much as Harry thinks otherwise, I did enjoy the dinners and the balls and the dancing... oh, the dancing was glorious!” John spun around to emphasize his point but was instantly glad that no one was actually around.

John shook his head to clear it of the memories. “Harry misses it more, though, that is certain.” He walked over and gave the cinch one last tug to make sure it was secure. “She detests each day spent in this poor, provincial town… not that I blame her.”

He turned back to the tack room to grab the bridle and reins. The Watson’s hadn't privy to the more elite circles of London but they were well-respected nonetheless and had enjoyed a fair number of social engagements. Harry had been popular amongst both the gentlemen and the ladies of their acquaintance, but as she wouldn't settle on a single suitor (she always had her eye out for someone a step higher than she could hope for), Harry was forced to leave with John. She was also more affected by their parent’s death than she let on; instead of mourning properly, she had taken to drinking. Even without the expense of London and its accompanying social requirements, Harry’s new habit had drained their coffers before the first year was out and John had been somehow scraping by ever since.

“You about done there?” John asked as he brought over the bridle.

Philippe continued ignoring John in favor of scrounging up the remaining oats from the floor.

John smiled as he stroked the long powerful neck, hair warm beneath his fingers. He gave the creature a few more minutes then tugged him away to slip the bit into his mouth as he buckled the bridle behind the fuzzy ears. He knew the horse was an added expense that they didn't precisely need, but the convenience provided by the ability to travel by horse and the time saved in tending their small farm was more than worth the money. John clambered up into the saddle and headed out the drive; he had appointments that morning at the small space that served as his surgery in town and he wanted to have enough time to find Harry beforehand to make sure she was okay. He took a deep breath as he set out; something in his gut told him that today wasn't going to be an easy day.

——————-

John knocked on the door for a third time, hitting a bit harder than before this time round. He waited, finally hearing footfalls in the entryway, and the door cracked open to reveal a mostly clothed woman. He used the term ‘clothed’ loosely; the nightgown was falling from her shoulders and a blanket was haphazardly thrown around her body. John averted his eyes; he may be forward thinking, but a woman’s body was still her own not his for the taking, visually or otherwise.

“Morning, Clara,” John said to the brass knocker. He supposed it was a bit forward to address her so, but considering the varying states he'd seen her, not to mention the closeness to his sister, he didn't feel too poorly about it. Clara didn't seem to mind either.

Clara simply giggled. She delighted in tormenting John almost as much as Harry did.

“Is Harry in?” John saw her nod out of the corner of his eye as she opened the door enough to let him in. He waited a moment, letting her retreat back to her room before entering the small flat. He waited by the door as he peered around the small space.  _ At least it’s a bit cleaner than last time _ . John saw a mouse scurry in the kitchen but it was an improvement over the rats he killed the last time he was here. He’d already scolded Clara’s father, the pub owner below, for some of his sanitation practices but the state the flat was kept in didn't help the inevitable vermin that found a way in.

The bedroom door creaked and Harry appeared in a linen camisole and a pair of silk knickers that obviously weren't her own but, he hoped, Clara’s. It’s not that John cared  _ who _ Harry took up with, but she could at least pretend to have some sense of propriety.  _ I hope this small show of disregard is solely for my benefit and not repeated with other visitors to the flat _ .

“You need to come home,” John said simply. He hated that she needed to help around the house, but he simply couldn't do it alone; he needed to be available at the surgery for general appointments and one never could predict when someone would fall ill or require emergency care. And nevermind the restless nights spent worrying that she was okay even when he knew she was here with Clara.

Harry stared back.

“Please, Harry.”

“I don’t like that dreadful cottage you keep.” She crossed her arms, unconsciously completing the look of a petulant child he was sure she didn't mean to imitate.

John sighed. He didn't want to have this argument again. “You know we couldn’t stay in London. As it is, we can scarcely afford it here.” The cottage was owned by an old family friend who had taken pity on them after their parent’s death and had rented it to them for far less than it was worth. As much as he wished he could give Harry somewhere closer town and nicer to stay, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Maybe if you didn't waste all your time in that stupid laboratory you set up! You could be making more money and we could go back!”

He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know that’s not true.” The laboratory was for his surgery, an easy way to research and study disease and a place to keep his more dangerous medicines like the chloroform and ether close by but out of the house. He didn't experiment the way his parents did, and he never would; nor did he want to meet the same end due to an accident in the house with all the chemicals and solutions he needed for work.

Harry stormed back into the bedroom only to emerge several minutes later fully, but hastily, dressed in a pair of his riding breeches, one of his shirts, and a waistcoat;. He let his head drop forward; as if the contents of his wardrobe weren’t sparse enough, Harry had to wear them too. She stalked past him and purposefully jostled his bad shoulder with hers, just to spite him. He hissed at the pain but said nothing, the smell the alcohol on her breath trailing behind as she passed. He sighed; arguments with Harry were rarely rational, but doubly so when she was still intoxicated. He didn't turn but heard her grab her overcoat from the hook before roughly opening the door and slamming it shut.

John made to leave when the sound of shod hooves on the cobblestones reached his ears.  _ She took the blasted horse. _ He took another deep breath. At least it wasn't far to the surgery from here and the walk would do him good he supposed. He couldn't see how this day could be any worse anyway.

——————-

John strode down the narrow cobbled street,  ignoring the looks and whispers from the other villagers as they went about their morning business of shopping and socializing, before turning off into the alley way that took him to the surgery’s back door. He knew he was different and had heard enough of the unsavory things and gossipped speculations about him to avoid socializing more than strictly necessary. He supposed that was why business wasn't the best; people came to him because he was the only one with medical training within ten miles. Everyone thought him odd for his love of books and science; for his progressive treatment of women and the shunned.

He was fiddling with the lock when a sultry voice came up behind him. 

“Those trousers look splendid, John.”

John sighed; he knew that wasn’t true, this pair being one of the more worn ones. He sensed a theme for the day as he took another deep breath before replying. “Hello, Mr. Moriarty.” The lock finally clicked open.

“Have you thought anymore about my last question?”

The doctor couldn't help the laugh that escaped as he turned to face the man behind him. “What? To marry you? The answer is still no and will remain as such.” John was a tolerant man, but Moriarty was nearly out of hand with his insistence, not to mention his unfounded forwardness with John. He didn't know what Moriarty saw in in him. Moriarty could have anyone in the village (he’d seen more than one woman and man swoon as he passed by) but for some reason had his sights set on John.

“What about a pint then tonight?” Moriarty took a step closer to John. “Start things off slow for you.” Moriarty crowded in towards the door, effective pinning John against the jamb.

“Thanks, but I’m afraid I can’t.” Everyone in town knew that John wasn't fond of drink. It was one thing to have glass of wine with dinner or a pint during lunch, but drink for the sake of a drink was something he wouldn't do; he already viewed the results of that daily, even if Harry was a special case. 

“Oh, come now. Of course you can. “ Moriarty leaned in closer, lips puckering slightly in the the hopes of stealing a kiss.

“Sorry…” John grasped behind himself, desperately searching for the knob. “I’ve got business to attend to after I am finished here.” John quickly opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door before Moriarty could get in another word and narrowly missed smashing the man’s nose on the wood.

Moriarty stood outside the door, staring at it, his anger slowly rising.  _ No one says no to Jim Moriarty.  _ John was the handsomest man in town and, one way or another, he would find a way to make John his husband.

——————-

John reveled in the fact that the rest of the day remained relatively uneventful. He finished up at the surgery by mid afternoon before he started off on his walk home. As he walked, his thoughts drifted, sometimes focusing on the day’s events and then falling to silence as he watched a small bird in flight. The good weather had held out during the day but looked to turn as the evening went on; the telltale nip in the air spoke of snow. John pulled his overcoat tighter and turned up the collar to the breeze that had picked up. Thankfully, he was nearly home.

As the windows came into view, he felt his heart drop. The windows were dark and the chimney had only a thin trail of smoke escaping it. He had hoped that Harry would have come home by now but she’d likely went back to Clara’s right after he left. He sighed as he opened the door and stepped inside. There was nothing to do about it now. He was exhausted and sore, and for once didn't feel quite so guilty about letting it all be until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

John awoke to a great commotion outside. Before he was even fully conscious, his hand had retrieved his pistol from where he kept it in his bedside table. He sat a moment, listening to the ruckus, not wanting to dart straight in; his instincts as a soldier were still hardwired into him.

He started to slowly creep out of his room, but when the frantic cries of a frightened animal reached his ears, he rushed down the stairs and out through the service entrance without further delay. The sight before him pained his heart, in more ways than one. Philippe was pacing the yard, nearly blown from the speed and distance he’d travelled to reach home. The saddle sat slightly askew on his back and the reins had been snapped off about a foot from the ground. Even in the low light of early dawn, John could see the spittle caked to his sides and several wounds that looked suspiciously like claw and bite marks. John couldn’t let himself think about his other worry, not until he had calmed down the raging beast in front of him.

“Philippe… easy boy…,” John spoke softly but with authority, seeking to bring the horse back from the fearful place he was stuck in. “Easy, Philippe.”

The horse slowed his pacing somewhat at hearing his name, John’s calm demeanor affecting him as much as the familiar voice and words. Eventually, he stopped and watched John, chest still heaving and the whites of his eyes showing.

John approached slowly with hands held low and out, palms turned down (Philippe could still easy spook) until he was close enough to run a gentle hand down the front of the horse’s face. 

Once the horse calmed, John let his mind wander to his other worry: the fact that Harry wasn't here with Philippe. He continued to stroke the horse, as much to calm the beast as to calm himself. It wasn't until a full-body shiver ran through him that he even realized it had snowed in the night, not to mention his alarming state of undress.

"Come on, boy," John whispered as he led Philippe to the stables and placed him in his stall with some hay and water. He removed all the tack before going back into the house to change into something more appropriate for both the weather and to dress the horse's wounds. 

It was full morning before John was done with his task. Thankfully, none of the injuries were severe or in a location that would preclude John from riding him in search of his missing sister. He hated to take the creature out again so soon, but needs must and he couldn't search all of the area on foot.

As he rode out into the yard, he wondered how on earth he would ever find Harry. Then, from his vantage point in the saddle, he spied his answer. The snow was turned up a great deal and, as his eyes followed the road out, he could plainly see the path the horse had taken on his way home. Without wasting any further time, he gave Philippe a gentle nudge with his heels and set off at an easy pace down the road. If all remained to his advantage, his trail of breadcrumbs would hold out.

\-------------

It was dark before John reached the end of a trail that led deep into the woods and far from the town. It looked as if Harry had started towards London, but she’d taken a wrong turn and ended up here. He'd stopped at the iron gates of a great estate and dismounted, leading Philippe forward by the reins. The house seemed dark, almost evil, in its appearance. If it wasn't for the still visible struggle evident in the snow before the gates, and the limping footprints after, John would feel no compulsion to enter them. As it was, he needed to know if Harry was here or had simply passed through. 

John raised his hand to push open the monstrosity, but before his fingers were within even an inch of the metal, the gate opened for him. 

“Must have been the wind…” John murmured as he slipped past with Philippe. John resolutely ignored the fact the gate closed itself with nary a whisper of a breeze. He looked around, and seeing that the yard was fenced, dropped the reins. Philippe was trained well enough to not wander too far while the reins were down.

He walked up the sweeping path to the main house. Up close, the house was both intriguing and more foreboding than it had seemed from the road. Ivy had taken over most of the lower levels, obviously neglected for some time, and many of the rooms were dark, windows dirty like no one had lived in them in ages. He saw an intricate frameworks of pipes and pulleys running up the walls and under the eaves, disappearing into the interior rooms at random intervals.

He raised his hand to knock but paused; he was almost afraid it too would open of its own accord. When no movement was evident, however, he gripped the knocker and let it fall, staring at it while waiting for an answer. It was curious, a rounded sort of oblong thing, with thin wisps of metal at the bottom. He peered closer at the crossbar where it was hung from the door and it looked suspiciously like  _ actual hair _ . If he didn't know better, he’d say it was an eye, or rather an eyelid, but that just seemed absurd.  _ Who has an eyelid for a knocker? _ He heard a soft click and suddenly he was staring right into a large piercing-blue eye, the ‘eyelid’ having rolled back. He let out an undignified squeak as he jumped back.

Another click, louder this time, and the door swung open. Inside it was dark, the large looming entryway lit by a scant few candles. John expected to be greeted by someone, staff or otherwise, however, after a few minutes of silence, John realized that no one was there. Against his better judgement, he took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

John stopped just inside the entryway (yet again ignoring the self-closing door) and waited for his eyes to adjust. The entry hall wasn't nearly so cavernous as it seemed from the outside but it was just as dark. He peered around, noting a few paintings on the wall and the occasional marble statue, but otherwise saw nothing that indicated someone  _ actually _ lived here. The floor was littered with dirt and leaves, and there were signs of what John was certain had been an explosion in the small room to his right. He saw more of the pipes running along both the floor and ceiling. 

“Hello?” John called out. “Is anyone home?”

He took a few cautious steps forward. If someone  _ was _ home, he didn't want them to think he was intruding. 

“I’m looking for my sister, Harriet Watson.” Still only silence.

John took a few more steps, heading back towards what looked to be a service entrance into what he hoped was the kitchen.  _ There is always someone in the kitchen. _ He was nearly to the door when he heard a soft clinking sound and a flickering light caught his eye, disappearing up the stairs.

“Wait! Hello?” John turned to follow the light. By the time he reached the stairs, the light was already around the corner.

“Stop! Please!” John ran up the stairs and down the corridor. He got halfway down and stopped by a small alcove where a clock and candelabra sat. He looked around but couldn’t see past the small circle of light. 

“Hello?” he asked again. “Where’d you go?”

“John?” came a muffled cry from the door next to the alcove. “John, is that you?” asked the panicked, frightened voice. “Get me out of here!”

“Harry?” John ran to the door. He jiggled the handle but it was locked. “Is it locked from the outside?” 

“Yes! Please, get me out!”

He twisted once more to no avail. He looked around for something he might use to pick the lock. A scraping to his left caught his attention and he looked back to the alcove. There, next to the candelabra, was a keyring with a set of keys. He didn't remember seeing the keys there before, but he was distracted. He reached over and grabbed them.  _ Wait… wasn't the clock on the  _ other _ side of the candle before? _

“John, hurry!” called Harry. “Before he comes back!”

John shook his head; he didn't have time to ponder that right now. “Before who comes back?” he asked as he turned the keys over in his hands.

“The Beast! He was horrid and mean and said he was going to use me for experiments!”

“Have you been drinking again, Harry?” John asked, not keen to believe such a story. He tried the second key.

“John, I swear he’s real!”

John just shook his head instead of answering or arguing. The third and fourth keys weren't right either. There was a commotion downstairs that stopped John as he was inserting the fifth key.

“John,” said Harry, voice suddenly very grave. “You have to leave. Now!”

“I’m not leaving you, Harry,” he replied. He ignored the sudden flare in his gut that told him the racket he heard downstairs wasn’t normal for any one person. “Just got a few more to try.” John fumbled the keys, losing his place. “Blast!”

“John! Go!”

“No, Harry, I won—”

A sudden breeze blew down the corridor and put out the candlelight; John froze. He cursed his blindness while his eyes adjusted to the dark. He felt something brush by him and turned to follow it, wanting to keep his front to whatever it was that lived here.

“John?” Harry whispered, her voice laced with fear.

“Not now, Har—”

“What do you doing here?” came a deep baritone.

“I was looking for my sister,” John replied, voice thankfully stronger than he felt. “I came to ask if anyone had seen her, but was led here instead.”

“Led? Who led you here?” he yelled, the anger barely contained in his voice this time.

“I d-don’t know who, I just followed a light and found Harry.” John shuddered at the growl that came from the mystery man. He didn't even know a person could growl like that.

The silence stretched for several minutes. He still couldn't see much of anything and all that John could hear was pacing. Frankly, it was getting on his already frayed nerves.

“Would you just stop that?” John finally snapped.

The pacing stopped.

“Thank you.” John nodded out of habit despite the darkness. “Now, can you let my sister out and we can be on our way. I don’t want abuse your hospitality any longer than is necessary.”

A barking laugh startled John. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Your  _ sister _ is staying.”

John scoffed. “I think not! You can't keep her locked up!"

“She, as you stated, abused my hospitality,” the man retorted. “My wine cellar is considerably lighter than it was a day ago, and debts need to be paid.” 

John cringed; he didn't have the money to pay for the (likely expensive) wine that Harry had partaken in, but also didn't want to leave her here at the mercy of a stranger. The man hadn't resumed his pacing but John could still hear him fidgeting from where he stood in the corner.

“Well, I refuse to let you keep her here like a prisoner.” John thought for a moment. If this man was determined to keep Harry, perhaps he could bargain with him. “What if I stay instead?” If this man did have any nefarious ideas, John would be in a much better place to defend himself than Harry. 

The man stilled, his mouth open to reply, but was cut off.

“John! No! You can’t!” Harry screamed, fists pounding on the other side of the door. “I won’t let you!”

“Well, do we have a deal?” John asked, ignoring Harry’s pleas. “Harry is free to go and I will remain until her debt is paid.” The man moved a bit closer to John. He could just barely make out his shape in the clouded moonlight filtering in from the window; something didn't seem quite right about him. 

The man moved as if to speak several times before he finally found his voice. “You would do that? Forfeit your freedom for your sister’s? She’s a worthless drunk who can’t even be satisfied by a single partner and still has aspirations of marrying a noblewoman… although she’d settle for a nobleman if the price was right. Where as you are a doctor with a somewhat successful practice and several interested suitors… oh and a former sold—”

“Deal or no?” John asked tersely. He didn't need a reminder of his lamentable life and wasn't about to get into an argument about it with some stranger.

“Yes,” the man replied after a moment, still considering John.  He took another step forward into the beam of moonlight and paused.

John sucked in a breath as the man, if you could call him that, stepped into the light. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and pale skin. His unruly curls formed an almost mane around his head. The hair on his face had a few days worth of growth and John didn’t doubt that if the man didn’t keep himself normally clean-shaven, then he would have quite the burly beard. And while the rags that this man deigned to call clothes hung limply from his angular frame, John suspected he was actually quite muscular. As John looked a bit closer, he could see the tips of two horns, one above each ear, sticking out of the curls. This was not a man, but a beast.

John took a deep breath. He knew what was silently being asked of him and nodded his acceptance.

Without another word, the beast pushed past John, knocking him to the ground, and quickly unlocked the door.

Harry flew past without a second glance at the creature in front of her. “John, no! You can’t, John!” She flung herself into his arms and held on tight.

“It’ll be okay, Harry, I promise.” He ran a soothing hand down her back. “Just stay with Cl—”

The beast grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled her away. They were already to the end of the corridor before John fully registered what was happening.

“John!”

“Wait! Harry!” He got up to follow after them, but the beast had reached the door by the time John got to the top of the stairs. Harry’s cries were more frantic and nearly incoherent.

“Take her back home to the village,” said the beast to someone John couldn't see. 

John heard a carriage door slam shut as he flew down the steps. Just as he reached the the bottom, the beast shut the front door. John could hardly contain his anger. He stormed over to where the beast stood and swung his left fist out, solidly connecting with the beast’s right cheek.

“You didn't even let me say goodbye!” he spat. “I don’t know when I will see her again, and you didn't let me say goodbye.” Without waiting for a reply, John stormed back up the stairs to the room where Harry was kept, leaving the beast alone in the entry hall.

The beast remained uncharacteristically quiet, gently rubbing his sore cheek, and watched John’s retreating form. He thought about his actions and realized what he should have done, but it was too late. Even as the ember of hope in his heart faded a bit, upstairs, in a dark corner of his room, the first words of wisdom were scrawled onto a blank page.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing last week! Life of course has chosen now to become hectic. I will do my best not to miss any more weeks but in case I do, here is preemptive apology and a promise that I will finish this :)

John slammed the door once he was inside Harry’s room. He paced over to the window; it faced over the driveway and he could just barely make out the gate as it finished closing. He didn't know what the beast intended for him, but he was too furious to care right now. He absently looked around the yard for Philippe but couldn't see the horse. He would need to go search him out soon.

He stood staring out into the darkness until the soft squeak of the door hinge and the creak of the floorboards finally pulled his attention. Standing in the middle of the room was the beast.

"If you follow me, I'll show you to your room."

John frowned at the creature. "My room? But, I thought...”

The beast sighed. "I do so hate repeating myself. Yes, your room. These are the guest rooms and as such are not used...ever."

“Oh, okay.”

This time he rolled his eyes. “If the point of your stay is to repay the debt incurred by your sister, it would be highly inconvenient to me to house you here. If you are roomed near me then you can come whenever I need you... and if it’s inconvenient for you, you can still come anyway.” The beast turned and marched out the door, not even bothering to check if John followed.

John gave the empty door a wary look before jogging after him; he couldn’t help the little bit of intrigue that was niggling at his brain. The beast had picked up the now-lit candelabra and was already to the stairs by the time John caught up with him. Instead of going back down, they continued straight on.

“What about Philippe? I need to see to him.” John asked, not wanting the poor creature to stay in to cold for longer than necessary.

“My servants have already tended to him. He is in the stables if you wish to see him,” the beast answered without slowing down in the slightest.

John frowned, unused to having others to do things for him but didn't slow his pace either. “My name is John, by the way, John Watson,” he said in an attempt to make conversation. He tried to sound open and friendly; he did have to live with this… man... creature… for the foreseeable future.

A low growl emanated from beast’s throat at the statement. “Yes, I know who are you,  _ Dr.  _ Watson. Around here I am known as the Beast,” he eventually replied through gritted teeth; the displeasure at having to participate in such  _ pedestrian _ banter was dripping from his voice. He gave his guest another glance from the corner of his eye. The look of sadness and rejection and  _ openness _ on his face did something to the Beast’s heart. His mind chalked the feeling up to curiosity at a new person to study, but, deep down, he knew what the emotion really was.

They came to a stop in front of a large arched doorway that led to another corridor. “However, my name is Sherlock, if you’d prefer,” the Beast offered, more gently this time. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John looked up at the Beast, at this Sherlock Holmes, and gave him a weak smile.

Sherlock felt something stir within him again, but quickly pushed it away; people were idiots and  _ boring _ , not to mention that emotions such as sentiment would only cause him pain in the end. No it was better to just ignore it all. 

He continued his forward march. “This is Corridor 221. The guest wing that we were just in begins at 201. You will be staying in here in 221a, while I will be in 221b.”

John gave the area a quick glance, noticing a grimy plate on the door at the end with the letter ‘C’ on it. “What’s in room ‘c’?” he asked.

“NOTHING!” Sherlock yelled as he whipped around towards John, his angry suddenly flaring. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “There is nothing there to concern you and you must  _ never _ go there!”

John jumped at the outburst but still nodded his acquiescence. “Right, Mr. Holmes. Got it.”

Sherlock straightened his tattered dressing gown. He opened the door to ‘a’ and strolled in. 

John followed and was momentarily awed by the size and grandeur of the room. There was a fireplace (with a fire already roaring) on one end and a large four-poster bed on the other side. There was an armchair and small table by the fire as well as a small bookshelf. The decorations were lavish but subdued, speaking not only to the decorator’s taste but to the wealth of the family. 

“I don’t sleep often and can go days without speaking. I also have a tendency to play violin at all hours of the day or night if the mood suits me,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he inspected the state of the room.

“Okay,” John replied, not sure what Holmes meant in telling him this. It wasn't as if he was here for pleasure. John wandered around, taking it all it in. 

“Meals are sporadic due to the nature of my work, but I expect you to join me for them.”

John didn't like the sound of that. “What if I don't want to?”

“You  _ will _ join me.”

John narrowed his eyes at Holmes but didn't argue back, seeing it was a fruitless venture. He continued to look about the room.

He heard a soft clunk, followed by a muttered curse from Sherlock and turned to see what was the matter. The man was scowling but John didn't know from what.

“If you need anything else, my servants will attend you.” Sherlock briefly glanced to the candelabra in his hand before giving John a brief nod. “Good evening.”

Before John could get another word in, Sherlock turned and fled the room. He barely had time to open his mouth when he heard the slam of another door down the hallway.

“Right, then.” John turned and began poking about the room. He went through another door that led to a dressing room with a small water closet attached. There was a claw foot tub on one side and several wardrobes along the back wall. Upon closer inspection, he could see more pipes and pulleys crisscrossing the room. 

“Wonder what all those are for?” he asked himself. He leaned forward, fingers trailing over one of the knobs.

“Yoo hoo!” came a voice from his bedroom.

John quickly jumped back, feeling guilty at his curiosity. This wasn't his his house after all; he shouldn’t be mucking about with things.

“Would you like some tea, dearie?” the woman’s voice called out.

John walked out, expecting to see someone matronly bringing in a tea tray. When he looked around, however, he didn't see anyone.

“Hello? Where’d you go?”

“Over here, love,” came the cheery voice from from the small table.

John turned just in time to see a  _ teapot _ hop from the  _ footstool _ to the  _ table _ ! 

“I’ve gone mad, I have!” 

“Oh, nonsense,” the teapot began but stopped herself. “Well perhaps. You  _ did _ volunteer to stay here, but that’s beside the point. Would you like a cup of tea?” 

John watched as the teapot poured itself into one of the waiting cups.

“Do you take sugar? One lump or two? How about milk?”

“One sugar and yes to milk, please,” John replied after finding his voice. He was talking to a  _ teapot _ !

The teapot nudged the finished cuppa his way. “There you go, dearie, nothing like a good spot of tea.”

“Thanks.” John took a sip and let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way,” said the teapot, already bustling around and tidying things up. “I’m just the head housekeeper, not your servant. So don't get used to it. We’re few and far between here, so you’ll be needing to do your own things.”

John nodded; he was used to making his own way. Voices in the hallway drew his attention.

“I don't see why we still have to listen to him. He was basically a freak before all this happened and he most definitely is now.”

“I said enough, Sally. The family has been good to us and...”

John watched as a candelabra and clock hopped into the room.

“Ah, Dr. Watson, hello!” called out the candelabra. “It’s a pleasure to actually meet you!”

The center post of the candelabra held a friendly face with a lopsided smile, while the other two were clearly arms. The shorter candles on the arms were white, while the tall one on top was a silver-gray color. The clock was made of a dark wood and the intricate carving along the top looked almost like curls. The face held within the front of the clock looked a bit cross, but from the sound of things she wasn't too happy about working for Mr. Holmes. John supposed being a clock didn't help anything, either. As they crossed the room towards him, the realization of where he’d seen them before dawned on him.

“You…” John started, “you’re the ones who led me to Harry!”

“Yes, sir, we did,” said the candelabra. “I was hoping we could get you two out before the Master returned, but we couldn’t.”

John opened his mouth to reply but the clock interrupted him.

“You should have got away while you could, sir!” the clock chimed in, leaning around the candelabra to get a better look at John. “Stayed far away from Sherlock Holmes!”

“Ms. Donovan!” hissed the candelabra.

“It’s ok,” John said, trying to stop the fight before it got out of hand. “I needed to save my sister.” He took a step forward and crouched down. Call me John, by the way.” He extended a hand to the candelabra, catching the slightly uncomfortable look on both both their faces. “Or Dr. Watson is fine as well, if you would prefer. Just never was one for ‘sir’ or anything like that. Got enough of that in Her Majesty’s Service.”

The candelabra quickly blew out the candle and placed his hand in John’s, giving as good a shake as he could. “Gregory Lestrade. I am the Master’s steward. This is Sally Donovan, Head of Household.” He gestured to where Sally was standing behind him, still with an annoyed look on her face.

“Not much of a household, is it?” she mumbled. When Lestrade gave her a look, she rolled her eyes and hopped forward. "Sally Donovan at your service, sir."

"Please, really, call me John or Dr. Watson."

“Dr. Watson, then,” replied Sally. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Well,” he started, feeling a bit awkward at having someone cater to him, “I am a bit hungry.”

Sally frowned. “The Master doesn't like it when food is served outside his requested times.” She though for a minute. “Perhaps we can manage to get a glass of water and a crust of bread without much effort.”

Greg jabbed a candlestick at Sally. “Don't be ridiculous, he’s our guest! If a guest wants something to eat, then he will eat! It is time we put out service to the test!” 

Greg hopped behind John and urged him towards the door.

Sally shook her head; she didn't think this would end well. Just before they rounded the corner she could hear Greg continue on.

“You should try the grey stuff, it’s delicious!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank the writers of the Gaston song from the Disney movie who's dialogue I used in much of this chapter. Also, when I read it in my head, its _really_ hard not to sing it to the music lol.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jim stomped his way into the dim pub and made his way to his booth in the corner, muttering all the while about being dismissed and rejected. He flopped down into the seat not caring for the decidedly feminine theatrics he was effecting.

“What’s next? Being publically humiliated? Why, it’s more than I can bear.” He slumped further into the seat.

“More beer?” asked Sebastian, walking up with two pints in hand.

“What for, Moran? Nothing helps.” Jim still took the offered glass, taking a long pull. He ignored Moran as he slipped into the seat across from him.

“Moriarty, you’ve got to pull yourself together!” Sebastian leaned forward as he continued, “Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Moriarty, looking so down in the dumps.” He gestured vaguely around the pub. “Every guy here'd love to be you, Moriarty, even when taking your lumps. There's no man in town as admired as you; you're everyone's favorite guy.” He sat back and took a drink of his beer. “Everyone's awed and inspired by you, and it's not very hard to see why.”

Jim glared at Moran over the edge of his glass. His voice was nearly sing-song near the end. “You’re being preposterous. If you think breaking into song is going to cheer me up, then you can leave.”

Seb shrugged as he leaned back in the booth. “It’s the truth though. You  _ are _ admired by everyone in town. You’re hunting exploits are on display,” he gestured to a the large wall over the fireplace covered with Jim’s hunting trophies, “you are quite the specimen of a man,” this time he gestured to Jim himself, “and I’m sure that I’ve seen half the town swoon after you walk by.”

“Yes, but  _ John _ doesn't see me the way everyone else does.  _ He _ doesn't swoon when I pass. It’s  _ John _ that I want. You’ve heard the talk as much as I have. He may be odd, what with his parent’s and growing up in London, but  _ he _ is quite an exemplary looking man… quite a catch.” Jim was whispering near the end and gazing towards his trophy wall.

Seb caught his glance and looked over to it as well, wondering what he was thinking.

“John would make  _ such _ a great addition to my collection, don't you think?” He looked back to Moran. “Imagine him sitting there, in a chair next to mine by the fire. Those dexterous hands massaging my feet, while my latest kill is roasting on the fire. And at home, we’ll have six or seven waiting to greet us.”

“Children?” Seb asked, unsure. He couldn't quite picture Moriarty as the fatherly type.

“No! Large hunting dogs for me!” Jim sneered at the thought. “If John wants children, he can be in charge of their acquisition and care.”

Seb nodded, not really sure how to respond.

“There must be some way!”

Jim fell into a contemplative silence, attempting to think of a means of convincing John to marry him. When the doors to the pub burst open and Harry fell through, he rolled his eyes. She was the single downside to his plans, but she could be easily taken care of once his prize was secured.

“Help! Someone help me!” Harry yelled to the room. Her hair was mussed and her clothing askew, but it didn't stop her from flying about the room, shaking all the patrons.

“Miss Watson?” the barman asked when she reached him.

“Please! Please I need your help!” Harry grabbed onto the lapels of his waistcoat. “He’s got him lockup for experiments!”

“Who?” asked Seb from where he sat in the corner.

Harry turned her head and rushed over. “John! We must go, not a minute to lose!” She reached down in an attempt to pull Seb bodily from the chair.

“Whoa! Slow down, Harry,” Jim said, taking a sudden interest in the proceedings. ‘Who’s got John locked up?”

“A Beast!” she exclaimed. “A horrible, monstrous Beast!”

Giggles and chuckles erupted throughout the pub. Everyone  _ knew _ Harry was fond of drink and no really believed her story.

“Was is a big beast?” someone asked, unable to resist egging her on.

Harry turned, moving towards the voice. “Huge!”

“With a long, ugly snout?” another patron called, holding up an empty glass to his mouth, his voice echoing eerily.

“Hideously ugly!”

“And sharp, cruel fangs?” A nasally voice taunted from the bar.

“Yes! Yes!” Harry screamed. She resumed flitting about the room, tugging at the patrons. “Will you help me out?”

Jim let out a dark chuckle and Harry stopped in front of him. “Alright, little girl. We’ll help you out.” His eyes flicked to two of the men behind her.

“You will? Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed as she was led towards the door. When one of them held it open for her, Harry wasn't expecting the shove that propelled her forward and into the cold night air. Her foot caught on a cobblestone and she fell into a pile of snow.

As the door shut, the entirety of the pub broke out into riotous laughter.

“Crazy, drunk Harry,” one of the men said, dusting his hands off as he returned to his seat.

“Always good for a laugh,” said the other.

Jim settled back in his seat. “Crazy, drunk Harry, hmmm? Crazy, drunk Harry.” He flashed a maniacal look to Moran. 

Seb furrowed his eyebrows. He’d seen that look before and it wasn't always a good one. The silence lasted several minutes.

“Moran, I’m afraid I’ve been thinking.” He twirled his empty glass in his hands.

“A dangerous pastime.”

“I know.” Jim glanced towards the closed door. “But that lush of a girl is John’s sister and and her sanity's only so-so. Now the wheels in my head have been turning, since I looked at that silly, little girl.” He turned his gaze back to Moran and he leaned forward. “See, I've promised myself I'd be married to John and right now I'm evolving a plan.”

Seb leaned in to match Moriarty, his voice suddenly low as he detailed his devious and dubious plans to ensnare John and make him his own.

——————-

Harry climbed back to her feet and brushed the snow off as best she could. She didn’t look behind her towards the pub, but could hear the ruckus of laughter erupting inside. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes but she refused to let them fall. The one time she needed people to believe her, everyone thought her mad or drunk.

She adjusted her coat and turned towards home. While walking through the snow was easier in John’s riding breeches, she equally wished for the warmth all the petticoats and crinoline she had at home. Just as she reached the end of the building, a voice called to her.

“Harry?” Clara stepped out from the shadowed steps of her flat, her voice was timid and unsure. “Are you ok?”

Harry scoffed, not even bothering to turn around fully. “What do you think? Apparently, I'm just a crazy drunk, not worth paying attention to.” Her voice had more bite to it then Clara deserved, but she couldn’t be arsed to care as she continued on her way.

“No, Harry, wait!” Clara jogged over to Harry, grabbing her arm to stop her. “You should… the weather…” Clara faltered, not knowing what to say. Harry refused to turn around but had stopped walking. Beneath her fingers, she could feel Harry trembling.

“Clara, I—” Harry’s voice broke and she couldn't continue. At the same time, Harry turned towards Clara and Clara pulled her into a tight embrace. The tears she had been fighting against finally came flooding out.

“Don’t worry, love.” Clara said, her soothing voice in Harry’s ear and her arms wrapped snugly around her. 

Harry shuddered in her arms as the sobs racked her body.

“We’ll find him and save him,” she said, gently guiding Harry up the stairs to her flat. The weather was only getting worse and it wouldn't do to have Harry attempting to get home until morning. As she tucked Harry’s limp form in next to her in bed she thought about John and what Harry had said. She’d heard tales of the Beast as a child but hadn't paid them much heed. Perhaps they weren't as bad as she remembered. A silent tear rolled down Clara’s cheek; she hoped she was right.


	5. Chapter 5

John rubbed his belly as he reached the stairs. He’d never seen so much food in his life.

“Did you enjoy your meal, Dr. Watson?” Lestrade asked. He was dancing around John, his excitement at putting on a successful full course meal still bubbling over.

“It was incredible, thank you!” He glanced to the other doors and hallways on the main floor.

Greg caught his gazing. “Would you like a tour?” he asked eagerly.

“A tour?” John perked up. “That would be marvelous. Must say I’m a bit curious as to what’s at the end of my corridor.” John craned his neck; it wasn't as if he could  _ actually _ see Corridor 221 from here.

“Not sure that’s a good idea.” Sally hissed, looking at Greg. “He might get up to something, go poking around where he doesn't belong.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lestrade, completely ignoring Sally and her concerns. “Mr. Holmes said the Manor should be considered Dr. Watson’s home for now and he  _ should _ know about his home.”

“Right, well maybe we should wait until morning, then?” Sally asked exasperated.

“Never a time like the present!” Greg bounced down the few stairs they had made it up. “There’s a library, several parlors, and a music room.” Lestrade hopped towards one of the main floor hallways. “Oh and the ballroom, you should see the ballroom!”

“Ballroom?” John’s ears quirked. He did so love dancing.

Greg stopped and caught the interested look in John’s eye. “Yes, the ballroom. Master even created an entirely mechanical orchestra for it, entirely steam powered!”

“Really?” John asked, genuinely interested. He never could resist inventions. He followed as Greg hopped down the hallway.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes is always inventing and running experiments.”

John felt a little bit of unease at the thought of experiments, especially when he thought of the decimated room by the front door. But then again, Mr. Holmes had seemed pretty well intact earlier that evening, so he supposed the man knew what he was doing. 

Greg stopped in front of a set of doors, his candle hands resting on the carved wooden surface. “Now, please remember that it  _ has _ been awhile since it was used so it—”

A huge explosion echoed through the building, sending bits of dust and plaster raining down on the trio. John felt his heart drop.

“And there he goes again,” Sally announced nonchalantly to no one in particular, dusting herself off.

Before anyone could stop him, John was running down the hallway. He took the stairs two at a time until he reached 221 and after a quick glance around, saw a thin trail of smoke from under the door of ‘c’. He pushed the door open only to be greeted with a face-full of noxious gases. He swore under his breath even as he took in a lungful of good air and ducked into the room. 

The smoke stung at his eyes but it took only a moment to locate a coughing and sputtering Beast crawling  _ away _ from the door towards a light in the corner. It didn't look like fire, more of a soft orange glow. John mentally sighed as he ran over, lungs already burning with the desire to breath, and grabbed Holmes under both his arms and hauled him up. He protested only a moment, pulling back towards the light, before he was overwhelmed by the lack of oxygen and fainted. John swore under his breath as he caught Mr. Holmes before he hit the floor and managed to toss him over his shoulder, ignoring the searing pain there at the extra strain.

Only once he’d reached the relative safety of the corridor ( _ God only knew what other volatile substances were in that room! _ ) did John dare breath again. He continued his march towards Holmes’ room, happy to see that Lestrade already had the door open. He flopped Mr. Holmes onto the bed, switching quickly from soldier to doctor. He could see that Mr. Holmes was still breathing and fingers pressed to his wrist confirmed a strong pulse. No obvious burns or fractures; no bleeding wounds. He quickly ran hands over the Beast, checking for injuries but hesitant to undress him without cause, not that the dressing gown could really be called clothes. 

“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, pouring steaming water from her spout into a bowl as Lestrade held out a flannel.

John nodded his thanks as he accepted the flannel. Holmes was starting to come to as he lifted the fabric to gently wipe at his face. He made quick work of the grime there before moving down to the man’s hands. As he turned one over, he sucked in a breath; what a few minutes ago had been normal skin was now covered in blisters.

“Mrs. Hudson! I need more water, cold as you can find it. Quickly!” He did another check, pushing up Mr. Holmes’ sleeves and only finding blisters on both his palms and a smattering on his wrists. The thin fabric had likely protected the skin from whatever it was that he mixed together.

He dipped the flannel again into the hot water, wanting to clean the injured areas once before he submerged them in the cold water. Gingerly, he dabbed at the hand closest to him.

Without warning, the Beast roared and flew upright. “That hurts!” He pulled his hand away from John.

The doctor glared at Mr. Holmes and made a grab for the hand. After a few thwarted attempts, he caught it, he replied, “If you didn’t move, this would hurt as much!” John wiped the skin again.

Sherlock made a face and yanked his hand back. “If you’d give me a moment, I have a paste I can use to dull the pain.” He gave Dr. Watson a look that said he was an idiot for not allowing this first.

John merely glared back. “Maybe if you weren’t performing dangerous experiments, Mr. Holmes, you wouldn’t need that paste so much, would you?” 

Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Donovan were crouched in the doorway watching the standoff, afraid to leave in case they were needed, but much too fearful of the Master’s wrath to be near him, let alone argue. They stood in silence as the minutes ticked by. Mr. Holmes’ mouth opened several times to argue but, in the end, nothing came out.

It was John who broke the silence. “Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Lestrade.”

The pair jumped, startled, even as they stepped forward. “Yes, sir?” they asked in unison.

“If you would please fetch me additional clean rags and water, both hot and cold, as well as this paste of Mr. Holmes’. I would be much obliged.” His eyes never left the man in front of him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And Ms. Donovan, please ensure that anything dangerous in the other room is appropriately neutralized and then that it is properly aired out.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

They departed quickly, voices already barking orders as they hopped down the hallway.

“You, Mr. Holmes, will sit.” He pointed to the chair in front of the fire. “That’s an order.”

Sherlock scowled for a moment before relenting and slumping into the chair with as little care as he could muster. He grimaced as the skin of his wrist accidentally made contact with the fabric but he remained silent.

“Now,” John said, kindness infusing his voice as he sat on the footstool, “let me see.” He held out a hand, waiting for the man to offer up his injuries for care. John may not want the man to suffer, but he also wasn't going to force Mr. Holmes’ care.

Slowly, Sherlock extended his hand and placed it in the doctor’s. He watched as his hand was inspected and gently probed.

“Looks like the blisters have stopped forming. Thermal or chemical?” John looked up at Sherlock.

“Thermal.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “There may be a small chemical component as I was working with dilute bases.”

John had returned to his examination but looked up at this addition and threw Mr. Holmes a glare. Mrs. Hudson had filled two new clean bowls for him and placed them, along with a pile of small cloth pieces, on a rolling cart and left it near him. He also noted a small earthen container that he only assumed was the paste Mr. Holmes had referred to. John picked up a flannel, wringing out the water, and pressed it to the palm of Mr. Holmes’ hand. 

Sherlock hissed at the sudden pain, only a hint of a growl escaping, but said nothing and didn't pull away.

After a moment, John continued, gently cleaning both hands and forearms. When the skin was satisfactorily clean, he submerged them both in the cold water, as much to dull the pain as to slow the inflammation. As the water slid up over Mr. Holmes’ wrists, John was overcome with an unexpected wave of emotion.

“You really should be more careful, Mr. Holmes,” John whispered. His hands lingered over the Beast’s for perhaps a moment more than was necessary but he didn't particularly care. He turned to sort through the cloth, finding pieces that would work for bandages.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock eventually said, his voice equally soft as he looked at Dr. Watson deducing things about his past. “I should have shown more care.” 

John looked up, puzzled at the sudden change in tone.

“You’re parents were scientists… inventors.” Sherlock’s eyes danced over Dr. Watson. “They died in an explosion... of their laboratory.” Sherlock dipped his chin, focusing on the distorted vision of his hands under the water. When he looked up again, his gaze was again shrew and exacting but the edges had softened just the tiniest bit.

John listened but didn't say anything. It was one thing to acknowledge it all in his own mind, but hearing out loud still pained his heart. Even if he wanted to speak, he wouldn’t trust his own voice not to waver. Instead, he reached for the earthen pot and opened it. He gazed inside and saw a greenish paste; it was obviously some sort of plant or plants mixed with a viscous oil. He smelt it and dipped his finger in it, rubbing it over his thumb and fingers. After a minute (and only a moment’s hesitation), he tasted it.

“Is this cocoa leaves?” John asked, not bothering to hide the surprise in his voice.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Dr. Watson. “It is. I’ve been working on isolating the compounds contained with the leaf. The native peoples of the Americas have been using the leaves for centuries to relieve and cure all sorts of ailments. This paste, I have found, is excellent at providing local pain control. I have also experienced the stimulant effects of chewing the leaves directly. Convenient when I have an experiment in progress.”

“How do you get them?” John frowned but thought about it. “They're fresh; you must have a conservatory here.”

This time Sherlock smiled. “In my youth, I helped a shipping captain avoid a charge of murder by proving he was at a brothel. As payment, he will occasionally bring back foreign items of my choosing. Several years ago, it was a small cocoa plant.”

John nodded, mind already skipping ahead. He spread a thin layer of the paste over the abused skin. Eventually he asked, “What other plants do you have in there?” 

Sherlock just smiled, ignoring the question as Dr. Watson wrapped up his hands. He stood up once the wraps were complete and studied him again.

“I think,” he began after a long silence, “that we may have started off on the wrong foot. If you are amenable, I’d like to start again.” He lifted his right hand and offered it to Dr. Watson. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

John, despite the circumstances of the past twenty-four hours, couldn't help but smile. He gently grasped Mr. Holmes’ hand and shook it. “John Watson.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and/or constructive criticism are always appreciated either here or on [my Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).
> 
> You can also follow all the authors involved in the Summer Serial (and get Thursday Teasers) on the [SSSS Tumblr](http://sherlocksundaysummerserial.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Want more? Check out the other works in the [Collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sherlock_Sunday_Summer_Serial_2015)


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